


A Little Spit and Polish

by w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Series: Elinora Cousland [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-18
Updated: 2010-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-06 10:18:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair's never had much luck with nobles. Set in Ostagar after the Joining ritual, and before the strategy meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Spit and Polish

"A Little Spit and Polish"

Witnessing a Joining was never what one might consider fun, but afterward there was usually an odd sort of peace, a sense of relief that the ordeal was through. Those who died were mourned, and the new Grey Wardens were brought into the fold as family, as brothers. But now, as Alistair left the ritual site, he found himself in want of nothing but a bit of solitude. One out of three recruits surviving a Joining didn't bode well for the Wardens, and Lady Elinora Cousland being the sole survivor in question didn't bode well for him.

Something sour twisted in his gut as he remembered seeing the message Duncan had sent ahead – the new recruit had not been Ser Gilmore, as previously planned, but Teyrn Bryce Cousland's youngest daughter instead. And now, as he strode through the camp, vapor steaming like dragon's breath as he exhaled, he felt nothing but dread. How long would it be before she was looking down that pert little nose at him? How long before she was treating him like not a brother, but a servant? Sure, he'd seen her prowess with a blade on their errand into the Wilds; he'd seen the initial horror cross her face at the sight of her first Darkspawn, and rather than quailing, she had set her jaw and ran Genlocks and Hurlocks through with deadly accuracy. It also hadn't escaped Alistair's notice how her Ladyship hadn't seemed the slightest bit intimidated by Morrigan or her mother – instead demonstrating manners befitting one so well-bred.

_Well-bred_, Alistair thought, scowling involuntarily. _That about sums it up, doesn't it? _ Elinora Cousland hadn't done anything specific to set him off, and he found himself wishing she _had_, so he at least had some sort of excuse to be this annoyed. But no, she'd been nothing but coolly polite since arriving at Ostagar. And Alistair knew enough about nobles to know that good manners were a result of good breeding. He just wondered how long it would be before the other shoe dropped and Lady Elinora started asking him to polish her armor.

He rounded the corner and saw the familiar flash of the Cousland crest on the heavy shield and stepped back into the safety afforded by the shadows cast by one of the voluminous tents. Elinora was speaking with the Quartermaster.

_Figures. We've got an imminent battle and her Ladyship's decided it's a good time to do a little shopping. _

Then he saw her hand over weaponry and armor stealthily plucked from the Darkspawn in the Wilds. She pulled wolf pelts and herbs out of her pack, handing them over and waiting patiently as the Quartermaster counted out silver and copper pieces, dropping them into her hand. She gestured at a suit of scale armor and Alistair could tell by the gentle slump of her shoulders that whatever answer she'd received hadn't been what she wanted to hear. Sticking to the shadows, he edged closer.

"Perhaps these daggers, then?" she asked. "Will they make up the difference?"

The Quartermaster took them, examining the pommel and the balance of the blades. "I can give you about five silvers each for them."

"But... but that's not nearly enough," Elinora replied plaintively.

"I could offer you a bit more for the blade you've got on your back," he countered. And even from Alistair's vantage point and the relative darkness, he saw her blanch.

"I'm sorry, I can't do that."

"Then the best I can give you is the suit. No gloves, no boots."

Alistair slipped in behind her, resisting the urge to give that springy ponytail of hers a tug. "If the King wants to see you and Duncan, you probably shouldn't keep him waiting. He might get mad, start crying, you'll feel bad and... well, it probably wouldn't be pretty." He got absolutely no joy whatsoever at watching her nearly jump out of her skin.

Okay, hardly any joy.

Very little joy, whatsoever.

And that blasted ponytail was still looking entirely too tug-worthy. His fingers twitched, and he held his hands behind him, rocking back onto his heels.

"A-Alistair!" she stammered, whirling around and taking a step back, and suddenly all of that deadly grace he'd seen displayed against the Darkspawn vanished when she nearly knocked over an entire weapons stand. "W-what are you doing here?"

He only cocked an eyebrow at her. "I should ask you the same thing." He sobered slightly, lowering his voice. "Duncan's waiting, you know. You really shouldn't keep him."

She opened her mouth to reply, then snapped it shut and inhaled deeply, letting the breath out slowly. When she did, the stammering girl was gone, and in her place was the polite, competent young woman who said things like, 'I look forward to traveling with you.' _Riiiight. _

"It wasn't my intent to keep Duncan waiting," she replied in perfectly modulated tones. "I merely had an errand that required my attention."

"Yes," Alistair drawled. Teasing her was really too easy. "I can see how the importance of a last-minute, pre-battle shopping spree might outweigh that of a strategy meeting with the leader of the Grey Wardens, the King, and his General."

Suddenly color rushed to her face, warming her cheeks, and for a moment Alistair thought that embarrassment rather suited her. Her green eyes widened, and the color in her cheeks wasn't altogether unflattering. Of course, this was only until Alistair realized that she wasn't embarrassed; no, Lady Elinora Cousland was _angry. _

With more force than he would have expected from someone so tiny, she shoved the suit of scale armor into his chest. Surprised, he caught it, looking at the unwieldy bundle in his arms, and back to the young woman before him. She drew herself up to her full height, tilting her chin defiantly and Alistair was beginning to get the vague impression he'd misjudged the situation. Grossly.

"Er. And... what did you want me to do with this?" He was almost afraid to ask.

Incredulity cracked through her cool, imperious expression. "You're supposed to _wear_ it, you idiot!" When his baffled expression didn't change, she added, "Your splintmail looks like it's ready to fall apart."

It was... for him? To wear, not polish?

Alistair looked down at the armor again, more confused than ever. Before he could say anything, Elinora crossed her arms over her chest and looked away, the warmth in her cheeks never abating. "I was under the mistaken impression the Grey Wardens were meant to look out for one another," she said, all stiffness and good-breeding. "I had extra goods with which to trade and decided it was best spent on a proper suit of armor. Unfortunately," here her face grew even redder, the line in her shoulders more rigid, "I was unable to procure matching boots or gloves for you."

"Oh. I... well. Er. That is, I mean..." _Maker's Breath, Alistair – more talking, less babbling! _

Elinora turned stiffly, cutting him off. "However, you are correct; I have been remiss in making Duncan and his Highness wait this long." Her spine was ramrod straight as she began walking away, leaving Alistair with an armful of armor.

"Elinora, wait— um, Lady Elinora. Er. My lady—your... your Ladyship?" There was a stutter in her steps and she paused, turning her head slightly. That was a surprise; Alistair had expected her to keep walking. He cleared his throat. "...Thank you."

She ventured a glance at him, attempting a tentative smile and nodding once before breaking into a jog and leaving to meet up with Duncan, her armor clinking and jangling as she went. Alistair looked back down at the scale armor, in significantly better shape than the dented, rusted splintmail he was wearing.

Given his experiences, he might have expected subtly snide remarks about the shape of his armor, if she'd acknowledged him at all – but never this. And then there was the fact that she was _trading_ for it – that was just _odd_, and Alistair found himself wondering about the nature of her recruitment. Duncan's message had been void of many details, after all. Had she been conscripted? Disowned? No, that didn't seem terribly likely either. He didn't want to ask, since that would only open up discussion about his own upbringing – something he had no interest in divulging.

Shaking off his thoughts, Alistair turned, making his way to the tents. Better armor would only protect his insides if he was wearing it.

Maybe he'd even polish it first.


End file.
